


In Summation

by geckoholic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Biting, F/M, Jealousy, Pool Sex, Rough Sex, Slight D/S Vibes, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The location of their latest mission has a private pool for upper-scale guests. Natasha and Steve grab the opportunity and put it to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Summation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



> Fills the requests for rough sex and biting among other things. Here's hoping it pleases!
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Every Night" by Josef Salvat.

It's a testament to just how _good_ Natasha is at her job that she can still pull off a random honeypot shtick after having been on national television twice. Hell, when she'd left for the ballroom, dressed in green silk, wearing a blonde wig, heavy makeup, and killer heels, he almost didn't recognize her. He watches her sashay towards the target, and it's a head trip, how much she looks like herself but also like someone else. 

She fishes a cigarette out of purse and bats her fake eyelashes, and the guy doesn't have the flicker of a chance. He pats down his pants pockets, finds a lighter and holds it out to her. Natasha accepts, brushes his arm as if by accident when she hands it back. The music changes, and she stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray nearby. Puts a hand on her collarbone and the other one on the target's shoulder asking him to dance. 

Watching him put _his_ hands around her waist and hauling her in closer than strictly necessary is when Steve's heart rate starts spiking. 

The music is a classic piece – tame, official dance music – but the target uses it as an excuse to press up to Natasha like they're slow dancing past midnight at a wedding reception. Steve wipes his hands on his pants – civil clothes tonight, formal, they can't afford to raise heads – and huffs. Maria shoots him a look. He glares back, and she shrugs. This thing between him and Natasha is an open secret; no one's supposed to know, but at least the other people who used to make a living in uncovering the truth, Clint and Maria, must have noticed by now.

And that's just the thing: they each posses a certain skill set and this is part of hers. She's not his property, she's barely even something that could be called his _girlfriend_ , and even if she were... he's the first to point out how men don't get to make decisions on behalf of the women they're involved with, and how much of a good thing it is that the world at large has started to realize that as well. Natasha belongs to no one but herself, least of all to him, and her limits are for her to determine. If she's okay with it, he doesn't get to work himself up. 

Still. He doesn't have to _like_ it. 

The target leans in from behind to whisper something into her ear, wraps his arms around her, paws gliding down the silk of her dress, over her stomach, and kisses her neck. She giggles and turns her head, smiles bright and seductively. Steve sees her hand pick the security card out of the target's pocket while she shifts, molding her body to his, the perfect distraction. 

He sets his jaw, fights the urge to give in to his temper and leave the room, run out, throw the door closed so hard it'd fall off its hinges. That's not an option, of course. He'll stay here, he'll monitor her, he'll do _his_ fucking job. 

A waiter walking by with champagne flutes gives her the opportunity to vanish; the target lets go and takes a glass in each hand, and by the time he turns back around to give one to her, Natasha has disappeared from his line of sight. It's somewhat satisfying to watch him crane his head, look this way and that, just to find that he's been abandoned. 

“Got the security card. On my way to the room,” comes her voice over the comms, and Steve nods to Maria, grabs his gun and heads out the door. 

“Understood,” he says. “Coming to join you.” 

 

***

 

When it's all said and done, they stand on the gallery above the ballroom, looking down at the crowd of people that will never know how close they came to a messy, ugly death tonight. Natasha nudges him, puts her hand over his where it's gripping the wooden railing, tight enough for the skin over his knuckles to turn white. 

“You know, it didn't mean anything,” she says, peeling his fingers off the wood one by one, until she can lace them with her own. “It never means anything.” 

“I do,” he replies. Wants to say more, tell her he understands, would never dare to make demands, claim ownership over lines that aren't his to draw. But the words don't come, his throat suddenly dry. 

Natasha rolls her eyes, nudges him away from the railing. “I still have the security card. There's a pool downstairs, private use only, for the guests booked into the large suites.” 

He doesn't ask how she knows this; that, too, is part of what she does. “So?” 

“Let your imagination roam, Rogers.” She tugs at him again, winks, voice low and rough in a way she never uses for a mark; it's honest and intimate, only theirs. “I'm sure you can come up with a few ideas on how two consenting adults can pass the time in a private pool.” 

Contrary to popular belief, Steve's not entirely inexperienced when it comes to _ways for two consenting adults to pass the time_. He swallows, blood rushing south without his permission; he's not sure he's ready to let go of his anger yet – at the mark, at himself, never at her – but he's not childish enough to turn down an offer like that. And so he nods, follows her without another word when she drags him towards the elevator. She wraps her arms around his neck as soon as the door has slid closed, hiding them from view, and kisses him, and he closes his eyes, makes a conscious effort to forget everything but the warmth of her body pressed in close, her taste, the smell of her perfume. 

It almost works. 

The elevator pings and opens to a tiled room. The pool is small, all things considered, and probably intended for the very purpose they're about to use it for; shallow enough to stand even at the deep end, maybe twenty feet in diameter, seats embedded into the sides near a few steps that lead into the shallow end. 

Natasha sashays past him, looks over her shoulder and beckons him with her finger, and then steps out of her high heels, lets the silk robe slide slowly down her body, leaves it where it fell. She reaches around herself to unclasp her bra and throws it away, bends to strip out of her panties. Only when she's naked does she turn, looking at him with a clear challenge in her gaze. 

“You're falling behind, there,” she says, nodding at his still fully clothed form. “Bit unfair, wouldn't you say?” 

He nods, but there are more urgent concerns now than getting naked; he closes up to her in a few quick strides and pulls her close, kisses her, open and hungry, hands sliding down the curve of her waist, the swell of her ass. Natasha indulges him, but not for long; she ducks out of his embrace and goes to work on unbuckling his belt, pushing his shirt up. He figures it would really be unfair not to get even, shucks off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt; she's got his belt open by now, unzips him and slides pants and underwear down his legs at once. Once he, too, is naked, she takes his hand again and leads him down the steps and into the pool. 

The water comes up to his hip and it's just the right temperature, not too cold, but he shivers anyway when he climbs into it, goes to his knees briefly to immerse himself in full, and comes back up dripping. 

Natasha fixes him with an appreciative glance. She steps closer and runs her palm over his chest, then steps around him and slings her arms around him from behind in a mirror of the position her mark was in earlier when he got _his_ hands all over her. But Steve's anger doesn't have much of a chance to flare, because her hands venture lower, below the surface of the water. Her hand wraps around his cock and tugs; he's been half hard since the elevator, and now he fills so fast it almost makes him dizzy, arousal flooding his system and relegating every other concern to the backseat. Suddenly he's feeling the artificial current of the pool much more intensely, all his nerve endings put on high alert. She brushes a fingertip over the head of his cock, drags it over the slit, and the gentle swirl of the water around it when she withdraws makes him groan. 

“You didn't like it,” she says as she moves through the water so they're face to face again, fingers dancing on its surface, watching the ripples they make. Then she cocks her head, eyes him, and smirks. “Watching me dance up there. You didn't like that at all.” 

Down here, still feeling the ghost of her touch, an inch away from her naked body, exposed just for him, it seems almost laughable. No matter how many other men might get to look or cop the occasional feel, they'd never get this. And yet, he can't help being a little bit possessive, just the reminder of the moment making him want to go up there again and throw punches. 

“Not one bit,” he admits. “I hated that.” 

She steps closer again, running a hand up his hips on each side then slinging them around his torso, dives in for a kiss. It doesn't last; she pulls away just enough so she can look him in the eye. “You're still pissed.” 

Steve shakes his head. “Not at you. It's the job. I do know that.” 

Body pressed in close, she leans in to whisper. “I want you to show me. Don't hold back.” 

This time, it's him who draws back and searches for her gaze. She's still smirking, one eyebrow quirked, and he understands this for what it is: a challenge. A game. A way to rile him up, get his blood pumping just a little bit faster. He's usually doing his best to be careful, still unsure of his own strength in situations that aren't a fight – by now, he knows the right measure of force to hurt people, knows how to carry himself when it's about taking out an opponent. Sex is different; he's got less control then by definition, tries to keep his need tightly coiled just in case. But if it's rough she wants, if that's what she's angling for, tonight he's all too willing to shift the lines a little. 

He pushes her towards the seats until her upper body is spread out on the tile, her legs wrapped around his middle, one hand fanned out over her belly to pin her in place. 

“Okay?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Don't ask,” she says and rolls her hips against his dick, trapped between their bodies. “Take. That's the whole point of this.” 

Far be it from him to disobey a direct order, at least when she's the one giving it, he bends forward, licking at a nipple, then the other. There, he lingers, waits until it hardened into a tight nub before he bites down, and the throaty moan she gives in reaction to that goes straight to his dick, makes it twitch against her flesh. He repeats the process on the other breast, licking, then biting, and presses her back down when she attempts to arch up. 

“Stay still,” he orders, glancing up, and he feels her shiver underneath him. “Don't move.” 

Impossibly, she nods, licking her lips, grinning with delight in a way that leaves no doubt at all as to who's actually in charge here, and _holy shit_ they should have done this sooner. It's not quite submission, it never could be with her, but that makes it better; knowing he's fulfilling a need she has, that she's trusting him enough to share, and it's electrifying. Eyes locked with hers, he removes his hand from her stomach, reaches between her legs and goes straight for her clit, rubbing with what he knows will be almost too much pressure. She writhes, but doesn't move, and he nods, bending down again to take a nipple into his mouth. This time, when he bites down, she all but screams: a needy, shameless kind of noise that reverberates and echoes in the tiled room. He pulls back and grins, lashes at the nub with his tongue, then puffs out a breath, all the while upping the pace of his fingers between her legs. He does it again, and peers up at her. 

“You like that?” he asks, grinning. “Is this what you wanted?” 

She nods and reaches out to card her hands through his hair. “Exactly like this. Come on, don't stop now.” 

He holds her eyes for a little bit longer, making sure, and then presses his thumb up against her clit, circling it in quick, relentless little circles, sucks the nipple he's been teasing between his teeth, pulling back a little bit as he bites down this time. Her grip in his hair tightens; he hears her breathing speed up. He wants to draw this out forever, but at the same time he wants to, no, _needs to_ her have right fucking now, feel the heat of her body around him, and so he steps in closer. She told him to be rough, after all, and so he uses the hand he's got between her legs to line himself up and pushes in, slow but steady, watching her face to make sure he's not going to fast. He needn't be concerned, though, because she's looking him with an expression that's half predatory, half abandon. Months of falling into bed together and he's never seen her quite like this, but now that he's had a taste it's an instant addiction. He's going to _live_ for this from here on in, putting that exact look on her face, making sure that need, whatever it is or wherever it came from, is met good and proper. 

Once he's buried to the hilt, he wriggles a hand between her body and the tiles, and she gets the hint, hoists herself up and wraps an arm around his neck, holds on while he carries her into the deep end of the pool and situates her against the tiles. Water sloshes around their shoulders, and he pulls back out until only the tip of his cock is still inside her, then thrusts back in with one long motion. 

Her nails are digging into the skin at his nape; he ups his rhythm, suddenly impatient. It's not quite selfish, he tells himself – she's breathing hard as well, hips meeting his on every thrust, as much as the limited leverage of her position allows. They're both teetering on the edge, and, he realizes, it'd be cruel to deny her the release any longer, wouldn't it? Her whole body rocks backwards with the force of his next push, pressing her body into the edge of the pool in a way that must hurt at least a little, and he'd feel guilty if she didn't spasm around him that very moment, orgasm rolling through her with such force that her whole body tenses with it, her legs tightening around him like a vice, and the sweet pressure of that spurs him on as well. A few more quick, carefully angled thrusts and he follows, dimly aware of her hand around his neck pulling him down so she can kiss him through it. 

 

***

 

They take their time collecting their clothes from the floor and getting dressed; chances are anyone who pays close enough attention will notice they were shed in a hurry and abandoned, wet spots and fresh creases and all, but he's too satisfied and strung out to care. 

“So that,” she says while she uses him as crutch for stepping into her shoes, “was... different.” 

Adrenaline and arousal receding, he does feel a slight sense of guilt for being quite so rough, for letting himself go that much. But he swallows the urge to apologize, suspects it won't be well received; if he'd done any thing she didn't want just now, she'd have made that known. Natasha doesn't do _anything_ she doesn't want. 

“In a good way?” he asks instead; he doesn't actually need reassurance, he's neither blind nor deaf and he _saw_ her just now, but yeah, he kinda wants to hear it. 

She rolls her eyes and grips his chin, fixes him with a glare. “Steven Grant Rogers, don't you _dare_ feel bad for this.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grins at the use of his full name, more so because she probably knows what effect that'd have, being chided like this, especially in the wake of an orgasm. “No regrets.” 

Natasha nods, and _of course_ she manages to keep a straight face. “Seriously. That was a goddamn spectacular orgasm, and I won't let you sully it with second thoughts. Is that understood?” 

She reaches out a hand, and he takes it, lets himself be pulled up, doesn't let go once he's upright. “Understood.”

**Author's Note:**

> A note about safe sex: Usually I'm not moving an inch on the topic of the use of condoms or an alternative, but, seeing how a) in this case the pairing consists of a super solider and a woman who's canonically sterilized, b) I went with a pre-existing sexual relationship being implied, and c) the setting would make the use of most common methods of protection difficult in the first place, I decided to handwave the use of protection for once and assume it's somehow already been discussed between them and decided to be unnecessary.


End file.
